A/N: Thank you to Kymby, BJMccoy, Joel Shell, and Elena! So happy to have you all with me!
The tension from last night had not resolved properly before Margaret and Charles had gone their separate ways on the second-floor hallway of the Winchester family home. He'd given her the requisite paperwork to sign and yet he hadn't seen her actually sign it.
Charles stood in front of his bathroom mirror, looking slightly more haggard than usual as he considered what Margaret would do today. It was now Tuesday morning and Margaret had now been back in his life for four days now.
Margaret's statement from the night before in the restaurant had gutted him, had made it difficult to fall asleep, difficult to even know how to behave. So Margaret preferred him to be damaged, emotional, dangerously vulnerable… His own conduct during the last three days had precipitated a noticeable change in her—a softness and gentleness she didn't often show. And now that he was finally moving forward, she'd fallen back on her old habits and opinions of him, as he'd also apparently done.
Yet did it really matter what she thought of him? All that mattered was that she could be his nurse again, assisting him in surgeries that took far longer than they had at the M.A.S.H.. They could not have anything but a collegial relationship now. Though Margaret had certainly had her flings at the 4077th, Charles had never ventured into a relationship or even so much as a fling with a nurse at the M.A.S.H., unlike Hawkeye Pierce. And now that he had returned to Boston, his judgmental family, and civilization at large, it was even more reason to never consider such an act.
Was Margaret incapable of seeing how much their hug the night before had meant to him? For the sake of their working relationship, he had to be the adult now, the rational man who had to remain aloof and uninvolved with his nurse. Did she not understand that? He had been forced to take this new role, but in doing so, he had to uphold the tenets of a Winchester.
Charles thought about how Margaret had referred to his return to old habits. He stared into the bathroom mirror in his chambers, and sighed again. Did she really think of him now as a scab? And if, indeed, she now thought of him as a scab, would that preclude her from accepting the position?
The pile of financial documents seemed to be getting higher and higher in front of him, sitting atop the inactive phonograph on his desk, which added a good ten inches to the height of the stack. Sighing, Charles Winchester stood up and placed the pile of papers on the other far corner of his desk, proceeding to remove the phonograph from his desk and place it on a low shelf behind him.
He sat down now, a pleased look on his face at the sight of the greatly diminished pile height. This afternoon would be important for his assigning the surgeons in his department to their cases. If Margaret was indeed planning on accepting the position, he would ensure that he'd assigned himself to more cases. The nursing staff seemed to operate independently of the surgical staff, randomly assigning nurses to cases perhaps based on their rapport with the surgeon or perhaps based on their familiarity with the specific procedure.
And yet, would she accept the position? Ever since she'd arrived in Boston, they'd had some good times and some very bad times, mostly due to his own offhand remarks and primitive emotional outbursts. He frowned as he considered all his thoughtless remarks, his complete lack of tact in responding to the many things she had done that had caught him off-guard. Perhaps she should reconsider working with him.
The knock at his door shortly before lunch made him flinch. Was Daniel Jackson again attempting to accompany him to lunch?
"Come in," he said, remaining seated.
Margaret stood in the doorway, dressed in a two-piece cream outfit consisting of a button up suit jacket over a pencil skirt. Unlike her past visit to his office, she left Winchester's door open. She held a small briefcase in her hand as she smiled at him, watching him quickly rise to his feet behind his desk.
"Margaret," he blurted, his face that of utter confusion. "What in the world are you… doing here?"
"I believe I am officially accepting the job offer," she said matter-of-factly, pulling the acceptance papers out of her briefcase.
A big smile immediately materialized on Charles's face. And yet, he knew he could not again embrace her in his office as they done the last time she was here. A handshake would have to suffice from now on.
"Congratulations, Major," he remarked, holding out his hand, his smile remaining wide in spite of the growing disappointment at what was now the official end to long embraces with Margaret, and even longer naps together along the esplanade.
Upon her acceptance, Charles sought to introduce Margaret to the surgeons with whom she'd be working. Five men in white coats, one without, were soon lined up in the hallway in front of Margaret. Charles introduced each surgeon by his full name as Margaret proceeded to shake each man's hand.
"Dr. Daniel Jackson."
Here was a man of average height in his early 40s, with neatly-cut dark brown hair and a kind face. He appeared to be a relatively serene person, perhaps a bit of a kowtower.
"Dr. Henry Fitzgerald."
He was tall and skinny though not as tall as Charles. His light brown hair was curly and he wore a pair of small spectacles. He seemed to be irritated that he'd been lined up for this introduction, which was not lost on Margaret, whose smile faded as she shook his hand.
"Dr. Arthur Meisner."
This man was only slightly taller than she, with black hair arranged as a type of comb-over and a round pleasant face with a slightly upturned nose and a thin mouth.
"Dr. Harold Baker."
Dr. Harold Baker was in fact shorter than Margaret, with large blue eyes, protruding ears buried in a head of graying hair, and a cupid's-bow mouth. He seemed to be an incredibly grave man.
"Dr. Thomas Steinberg."
This man was nearly as tall as Charles, with slicked-back gray hair, dark glasses, and a full moustache and beard. When she shook his hand, his skin was as dry as sandpaper.
"And lastly, Dr. Clyde O'Rourke."
The only doctor who had opted not to wear a white coat for this introduction, he naturally attracted the most attention of the six surgeons in the department. His hair, thick and wavy, was flame red, a pair of large tortoiseshell glasses on his green eyes, his skin covered in freckles, though he couldn't have been more than 40 years old. He was shorter than Charles but seemed to be of a more athletic stature than the other doctors, as his ill-fitting plaid dress shirt and pants revealed. Most surprisingly of all, when it came time for Margaret to shake his hand, he instead took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
Charles rolled his eyes at the interaction and yet stifled any further response by promptly pulling a folded document out of his pocket and scrutinizing it as Dr. O'Rourke finally lowered her hand, plunging the introductions into awkwardness.
Finally, the group disbanded, and Margaret followed Charles back to his office.
"I suppose I should speak to the secretary about also meeting the nursing staff," Margaret said, her face slightly pinker than before. "They'll tell me when my first day will be."
"Well, please let me know what they say," Charles replied. "This afternoon I shall be assigning cases for the remainder of the week and… I would like to be your first."
The coy little smile on Margaret's lips made Charles acutely aware of how his statement had been perceived by her. In spite of the clear suggestiveness of what he'd said, he did not attempt to rephrase.
Wait—did Margaret just wink at him? He nearly choked on his saliva.
"I would like that too."
"Good morning!" Margaret cheerily exclaimed, opening the door to her chambers after Charles had emerged from his own bedroom dressed for work, briefcase in hand. It was now Wednesday and she'd since changed into her work outfit after officially accepting the position at the hospital yesterday. Today would be her first day.
Charles couldn't help but flinch at the unexpected voice at this hour of the day, and turned around to see Margaret leaning against her doorjamb.
"I didn't realize we'd be leaving at the same time," she added. "Would you like to ride together to work?" she said.
The look he gave her in return, a look of utter disbelief, made it obvious what he felt about her suggestion.
"Ha—well, I can't say I didn't try," she said, shrugging. "Anyway, the end of the month is only three days from now, and then I will be beginning the lease on an apartment I found. I'm only going to be here for two more nights. So the opportunity to ride to work with yours truly will be gone."
"You found an apartment?" he said, gaping at her. "Where? Why didn't you mention this last night?"
"At dinner with you and your family? No, thank you," she said, shaking her head.
"Yes, but after that," he said. "Did we not speak for several minutes after the meal was over?"
"Yeah, about the food and not much else." Now she looked confused. "Where exactly are you going with this? Hell, I only just paid the deposit yesterday afternoon. Anyway, I'm going to be living in South Boston."
"You chose Southie?" he retorted distastefully. "Did I not expressly recommend four neighborhoods that were, in fact, not Southie?"
"I'll fit in just fine there," Margaret replied. "It's very Irish."
"I am well-aware of the ethnos of South Boston," Charles said, rolling his eyes. "It's up to you, Margaret. Might I remind you—it's very… blue-collar."
"My kind of people," she said, with a big smile, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Right," he muttered, disconcerted by the remark. So she had chosen her side—which notably did not involve him and his upper-crust background. "Well, I must be going now," he added, attempting a half-hearted smile and little bow of the head. "I wish you a very successful first day."
With that, he turned away from her with an awkward little wave and prepared to head down the hallway towards the stairs.
"Really," she remarked bitterly. "after all we've been through, that's all you're gonna say to me?"
He turned around now, a confused look on his face.
"I have, in fact, scheduled myself to be the physician of record in two surgeries this week based on your feedback from the nursing staff," he replied, grimacing at the self-control he had to employ. "I hope to see you there, Margaret."